


feels like home to me

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 05:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: John finally finds Harold's house.





	feels like home to me

John shuts the door behind him with a soft _click_. Part of him is wary, anticipating the same failure he'd encountered every time up till now. The rest is almost numb, as if trying to feel joy he'd lost capacity for.

_Harold's house._ This is the real thing. John is here where Harold spends his nights, where he hangs his suits, where he does his laundry. Or where he has his laundry service send his clean clothes. Whatever.

He opens a door at random: a linen closet. He ignores it in favor of the next door.

Jackpot. It must be Harold's bedroom: it contains a heavy king-sized bed with an oak frame, its sheets still mussed.

He's about to inspect its underside when his earpiece comes to life. "Mr. Reese? We have a number." Harold proceeds to rattle off names and locations.

"I'm on it," John says, giving the room one last, longing look before he leaves.

With any hope, Harold won't leave this place before John has a chance to look it over thoroughly. After all, he's the ones who's been leaving John the clues that lead him here.

~~

It's 2:30 am. John ought to be sleeping. Instead, he's silently picking a lock.

It gives much more easily than John would've thought. It's hardly any time before he's inside Harold's home. John inhales the air, smells floor polish and leather from the couch.

There's a very faint sound coming from the bedroom. John eases the door open, aided in staying silent by years of experience.

He doesn't know what he expected. Surely the sight of Harold, pajama-clad and snoring lightly, is the most likely outcome of walking into Harold's bedroom in the middle of the night. And yet the experience shakes him, fills him with burning rage.

It could've been anyone in John's place. The lock was too easy. Anyone could come here, while Harold is asleep, and--

Before the lurid scenarios can unfold, Harold murmurs, "Please shut the door, Mr. Reese."

Just like that, John can breathe again. He whispers, "Sorry," and closes the door, leaning against it and gasping as though he's had a narrow escape.

Harold must have had safety measures in place. Something that told him someone was coming, that John was that someone. It couldn't have been just anyone, after all. Which means Harold leaving him clues was no accident, and not a decision he's regretted yet. Harold knew John was coming, and Harold allowed him in.

It's too much. Abruptly, John feels claustrophobic. He still takes care to leave quietly, even though his heart is threatening (Harold trusts him) to burst out of his chest (Harold wanted him to come) with every beat.

~~

Afternoon sun slants softly through the window as John closes the door to Harold's house behind him. The living room is all done up in autumnal shades, red and brown and hints of gold that catch the light. The couch is deep and firm-looking, like it wouldn't be hard to get up once one sat down.

John doesn't trust that impression. The living room isn't likely to contain anything of interest. He goes into the kitchen instead.

There are good pots in the cupboards, of many sizes, and a heavy wooden cutting board hanging on the wall. The equipment is all pristine, which makes sense given that the fridge contains nothing but condiments and half a box of stale Thai takeout. 

There's even a knife block. John pulls one out and tests it on his thumb: the blade is too dull to break skin. Pity. It's a good knife, for either cooking or self-defense emergencies. Maybe Harold has a whetstone around here somewhere.

John whistles, going down the hall; he's in a good mood and he's pretty sure Harold knows he's here anyway. He considers the merits of breaking in and filling Harold's bare pantry with actual food.

He enters the master bedroom and sweeps his eyes over it, methodically. The bed is unmade. A smile tugs at the corner of John's mouth. He goes to look under the bed, then abruptly changes direction. He'll look at the ensuite bathroom first. Until then, he'll continue to have anticipation fluttering in the bottom of his stomach.

The bathroom is clean and well-appointed; of course it is. The shower is large, with a convenient gripping bar on one wall, and a little hanging shelf of toiletries on the wall perpendicular to it. John picks up an unlabeled bottle, uncorks and sniffs. Yep, he knows that scent.

He puts it back, then halts. There are two kinds of soap on the shelf, and one of them is the kind John uses, scent-free and silkier than one would expect. 

Of course, Harold got him on that soap. Before John had used whatever came to hand. Perhaps Harold uses it, too.

John picks up the soap bottle. It's heavy: full, or almost so. The other soap bottle is much lighter. There are no other redundancies on the shelf.

John retreats out of the shower. Next to the sink there are two toothbrushes, one of them identical to the one John has at home. 

He goes back into the bedroom and doesn't open the closet. He doesn't know what he'll do if he finds a black suit cut to his size in there. He doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't find it.

~~

"Go _home_ , Mr. Reese," Harold tells him, exasperated. 

Probably John should. He's more than likely concussed, and there's nothing left for him to do here. Harold is capable of mopping up the loose ends of this case far better than John, anyway. 

But John doesn't want to go home. He doesn't want to argue with Harold, either, so he slinks out and away from the library.

He knows, by now, the way to Harold's house. Can find it even punch-drunk and possibly concussed. Breaking in, too, is familiar. Easy. Like the house wants John inside him.

He blacks out a little, coming back to himself to realize he's sitting on the couch. It really is quite firm. 

John doesn't like it. He feels too exposed out here, like he's letting someone or something see him and see all of Harold's secrets through him. He stumbles up the hall and takes the first turn.

It's dark in here, and quiet. Fabric surrounds him. John trips and ends up on his knees. He means to get up, and instead rolls on his side, curling up. He pulls blearily at some of the fabric waving above him. It doesn't come down, and then it does, with an ominous creak and a _thump_.

The next thing John sees is Harold's face, blurry and out of focus. John squints at the sudden harsh light. "Finch?"

As far as John can tell, Finch looks baffled and disapproving. It's a good look on him; most are. "Mr. Reese," Harold says, with careful enunciation, "what on earth are you doing in my linen closet?"

That's a good question. "Sleeping?" John tries.

Harold huffs. "As though I don't have a perfectly good guest room. As though you don't have a standing invitation to come into my bed, come to think of it."

John blinks slowly. He's pretty sure Harold hasn't mentioned that. John would have remembered. 

His confusion must come across: Harold huffs again, and says, "It was implied very strongly. Didn't you use to be a spy? I thought you could read between the lines." But Harold's ears are turning red, and he's looking away from John, like he's embarrassed to be caught.

Like he put this entire house out as an elaborate invitation for John, who's been very, very slow to take it.

John rises, grinning in delight only slightly hampered by his massive headache. "I'll bear that in mind," he tells Harold, and walks into a wall.

"You can think about it all you want _after_ you fully rest," Harold says, endearingly crotchety, and marches John down to the guest room. 

~~

There isn't a number today so far. It's mid morning, and John hasn't heard from Harold at all today. He stands in front of Harold's door, hand raised to knock. He's considering breaking in again, but his hands are too sweaty to hold a lock pick. 

Harold must know John is here. Harold must know, but he's waiting for John to come to him. John swallows and knocks.

Harold opens the door. He's wearing a suit John likes, in reds and browns that fit in with the living room's theme. "Mr. Reese. Please come in."

He does. He closes the door. "Call me John," he says, and leans in to kiss Harold.

The prospect of seeing Harold's body excites John, fascinates him, but as he methodically undresses Harold he realizes that Harold's body, too, feels like home to him. He tastes his own welcome in Harold's mouth, feels it in the softness of Harold's skin.

Harold leads them to the bedroom, but John is the one who gets them on the bed. He wants space to roll around, wants room to touch, and here in this airy, clean room, John gets to touch all he wants. 

It's pretty great. Harold's wide-eyed face and the noises he makes are highly inspiring, and John wonders if maybe this is another way Harold hasn't been taking care of himself.

John likes the thought of being able to take care of it for him. It looks like John won't even have to break in to do it.


End file.
